


this lived in love will never be dull

by spacenarwhal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:39:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: See the truth of the matter is that Foggy already knows. He’s known for a dog’s age that he’s sticking with Matt, in one way of another, ‘til death does them part (and then some apparently).  Come hell or high water.For better or worse.[Or: The most anti-climatic proposal and engagement Foggy could have asked for. With feelings.]





	this lived in love will never be dull

Foggy sort of figured, if it ever happened, it would be all blood and bone and terror, that the sky would tear open and all the levels of hell would rain down on them. He’d imagined Matt in his crime fighting number, blood on his teeth and knuckles busted open, staving off death by sheer force of will, asking Foggy like the tragic hero he was hellbent on being. 

Or maybe Foggy would ask, weeping beside Matt’s hospital bed, trying to find some way to keep Matt just a while longer. 

Something dramatic, thunder and lightning sprinkled on top just for kicks.

Reality is pretty boring in comparison.

Foggy’s okay with it. 

-

Half the office is still in boxes and Foggy can’t get a Comcast representative on the line to save his life while Matt tries to get the coffee machine to produce more than the tepid sludge its been dispensing all morning. 

It’s hot. July in the city always is, suffocating and wet, like an all day sauna that makes the shirt on his back stick to his skin. Foggy groans as the same brain numbing jumble of notes starts playing for the four hundredth time, sweat turning his phone screen tacky against the shell of his ear. “How badly do we need internet?” Foggy asks over his shoulder, irritated and about ready to throw in the towel. 

“No internet. No coffee. Are you trying to recreate the Shining?” Matt tosses back at him. 

Foggy doesn’t even blink, just replies, “Aw, Matty, you know all I need is you.”

Matt smiles at him, and even with his hair standing like a drunken haystack from all the nervous fiddling he’s been doing trying to get the machine to work, and his glasses slightly askew from wiping at the sweat on his face, he looks downright _delighted_ , lit up from the inside in that goofy kind of way he gets sometimes. And now, even after all these years, Foggy’s heart does that skipping-stone hop all the same, comfort radiating down to his toes. 

-

See the truth of the matter is that Foggy already knows. He’s known for a dog’s age that he’s sticking with Matt, in one way of another, ‘til death does them part (and then some apparently). Come hell or high water.

For better or worse. 

-

Foggy has romantic epiphanies on the regular. Lightbulb going off over his head, heart busting out of a metal frame, pulse racing, the whole deal. 

Matt’s good at being a muse for that kind of thing.

And the Daredevil of it all has pushed them into the loving arms of brutal honesty, paved the way for unromantic, frank conversations about filing joint taxes and insurance polices and health premiums. 

(They’ve talked about spousal privilege, about Foggy being unable to testify against Matt if— _if_ —and no matter how much Matt glowers and scowls there’s no denying the possibility of it, still, hanging over their heads. “I’m not going to be the person that turns you in.” Foggy says, as bullheaded as Matt when he hisses, “I’m not going to marry you just so you won’t have to testify—that’s not a good enough reason for me.” And neither of them is happy but that’s what reality is sometimes, being unhappy about the same thing for different reasons.)

They’ve had more than a few spiraling talks about whether or not they’d be interested in changing the name of the firm into a tongue twister of hyphens, even though Foggy argues that Nelsons are a dime a dozen in the tristate area and Murdocks are a dying breed. 

(“Nelson _and_ Murdock,” Matt insists, knocking his ankle against Foggy’s knee, draped over him on the couch, “I’m telling you it’s got a ring.”)

They’ve let themselves admit and be comfortable admitting that getting married isn’t what they want, not a hundred percent, not right now.

But now, sweating in their wifi-less, decaffeinated office Foggy knows. 

They’ve already gotten through the hard part. 

They can handle the rest.

-

“That’s it?” Karen asks, leaning against a watermarked tabletop at Josies. Someone behind her at the bar shoots Karen a biting look and Karen flat out ignores them, tossing her hair over her shoulder in a pure show of dominance that makes Foggy grin. “That’s the story?”

Matt snorts at Foggy’s shoulder, sniffing indelicately in a way that tells Foggy beer went down the wrong pipe. He swats at Matt’s back ineffectually, rests his hand between Matt’s wiggling shoulder blades. Karen giggles into her whiskey, less concerned than she might be if she were more sober and less aware of how many injuries Matt incurs on the regular. A little beer won’t be what ends him.

Matt clears his throat, “Are you implying it wasn’t the stuff of romance, Ms Page?”

Foggy chuckles, “The fluorescent lighting reflecting off your glasses was beautiful, dear.”

-

“We probably need rings.” Matt says oh-so-causally one Saturday morning, still wearing sweatpants and sporting an impressively grizzly beard. He keeps saying he’s going to shave before they open house again, but it’s yet to happen. Foggy wonders if its possible to get Stockholm syndrome for beard burn.

Foggy finishes his sip of coffee before answering. “When’d you buy rings, Murdock?” Because there’s no point beating around the bush, not when Matt’s already going red around the ears and holding one hand behind his back. 

Matt grins, sheepish but please, produces a box and sets it down on the counter. Inside are two matching gold bands, plain and simple, standard wedding band fair from the little Foggy knows.

“Marci was pretty indignant when she found out I hadn’t gotten you a ring.” Matt says, like that explains it all. Which considering the Marci of it all, it kind of does. 

Foggy’s throat spasms, and he sniffs, because, you know, he hasn’t exactly been dreaming about this moment his entire life but now that it’s here it’s actually really nice, if nice is even the right word. “Did you tell her I asked you?” Foggy croaks, trying to play it cool and utterly failing.

This was supposed to be nonchalant. They’re supposed to be _chill_. What’s the point of marrying your best friend of nearly twenty years if you can’t keep your shit together at the smallest suggestion of romance. 

“I told her we mutually came to an agreement.” Matt says, plucking one of the rings out of the box. Foggy sets his coffee mug down and lets Matt grab his hand, his stupid heart still doing somersaults in against his rib cage.

“Yeah?” Foggy tries again, injecting all the levity he can into his voice. “What she say to that?”

Matt grins, sliding the cool ring down the length of Foggy’s ring finger. “That you could better.” 

“Than you?” Foggy says thickly, picking up the other ring so he can place it on Matt’s finger. It sticks a little at the knuckle, swollen from the most recent night’s excursions. Foggy doesn’t let up though, and Matt doesn’t even wince as Foggy pushes it the rest of the way down. “Never.”

The ring clinks against the handle of Foggy’s coffee mug when he picks it up again. The sound makes Matt smile so wide, his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

-

Mom complains that the courthouse makes her feel like she’s waiting at the DMV, watching numbers flick by on the screen, hoping for the number to match the one printed on the little square slip of paper in Foggy’s hand. 

But Foggy kind of likes that Khaled, the coffee stand guy, congratulated them when they passed by. They’re still picking at the bear claw he gave them as a wedding gift. 

He’s marrying the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, true, but it’s nice to remember that he’s marrying Matt Murdock, always and forever, amen. Foggy’s signing on for sleepless nights and bloodied knuckles, for thunder and lightening, pain and guts, but he’s signing on for all the rest too. Crappy coffee at three in the morning, buried in legal briefs and long empty boxes of take-out. Foggy’s on board for too many shots and beer of questionable merit they’re probably too old to still be drinking, shitty jokes and bad dates, accomplishments and failings, late nights and early mornings and all the hours in between that make up the minute miracles of their ordinary days.

Matt takes his hand, fingers slightly sticky with honey glaze. “This works for me.”

-

“To the lamest marriage in history.” Jessica says, smirk colored with fondness. Malcolm elbows her indiscreetly but the rest of the table raises their glasses. Karen produces yet another handful of confetti from her bottomless purse, throwing it over their heads with a ringing “Here, here.”

(Years later Foggy will still point to the floor and say, “That amorphous blob is where the confetti melded in to the beer and bonded to the floorboards forever,” and Josie will still gripe about how they were band thereafter but kept showing up.)

Matt’s shoulder jostles his and Danny starts tapping his beer bottle against the table, “Kiss, kiss!” like the child Foggy suspects he always will be. Foggy’s never been one to shy away from public displays of affection and tonight Matt isn’t either, throwing his arm over Foggy’s shoulder and pulling him in swiftly, lips moving with more vigor than finesse, hand burning hot through the thin material of Foggy’s shirt. 

For better or worse, Foggy thinks, and there’s that free-fall swoosh in his stomach, eternity stretching out before him. He hangs on to Matt a little tighter, holds him a little closer. He’s going to wring as much time our of Matt Murdock as he can, the Devil and Hell’s Kitchen and all the rest of it be damned. 

Luke whistles. Someone throws a corn nut at them. 

Jess gags, “Keep it in your pants horn-head.” 

And it might not be grand but it is fucking fantastic. 

**Author's Note:**

> That Daredevil S3 promo fucked me up apparently so here's a self-defense mechanism induced fluff story?


End file.
